A collection of automotive stuff, restaurant/travel-related items and personal observations; mostly a lot of claptrap, really.

Nashville

Taken a few years ago at some joint on Broadway in Nashville, this was one of several photos with good-looking girls I had never laid eyes on before. It wasn't my birthday, but the Nissan crew was telling every attractive female we encountered that it was. Here's to getting older!

Sunday, July 26, 2015

I'm not the kind of guy who expects
things to go perfectly when flying. When you ponder the
possibilities, there are thousands of things that can go awry to
screw up a day of flying. I've had my reserved ride to the airport
not show for a 5 a.m. pickup. I've had my baggage miss connecting
flights. I was delayed nearly three hours in Greenville's airport
once because the replacement equipment used for a broken plane
scheduled into Greenville the night before couldn't be refueled by
GSP's rapid-pumping fuel filler. An international flight I was on
recently was delayed two hours because no one thought to cool down
the cabin before the crew arrived. The temp was well over 100 degrees
and it required more than two hours to cool to the
approved-for-passengers 80 degrees. And on and on and on it goes.

Consequently, I am always pleasantly
surprised when a day of flying doesn't include any, well, surprises.

A recent return trip from Los Angeles,
though, was one of those travel days with a series of issues that, 20
years ago, would have sent me into a red-faced, screaming rage. I am
older, calmer and have made peace with the fact that flying just
doesn't always go as planned (See paragraph No. 1.). Although “inner
Russ” was a bit crazed, “outer Russ” remained cool and
collected.

My blood pressure began it's upward
trajectory as I sat in the car assigned to cart me and another
journalist to LAX for our flights home from the Mazda introduction of
the redesigned MX-5 Miata and the all-new CX-3 crossover. This other
journalist shall remain nameless; but once I learned who was delaying
us, I wasn't surprised that by five minutes past our scheduled
departure time, he had yet to put in an appearance. This isn't some
clueless kid, but a seasoned (yet obviously somewhat oblivious)
veteran of such press junkets. In other words, he is an adult and
should be professional enough to be where he's supposed to be when
he's supposed to be there.

We do have more than our share of
self-absorbed asshats among the motoring media. These are the people
who are consistently late for everything, such as shuttles to
off-site dinners and so forth. In life, some people are always late
because they are absent minded; while others are just inconsiderate
jerks with an over-inflated view of their worth. I suspect most of my
serially late contemporaries are among the latter rather than the
former. The car companies are partly responsible. They do often treat
us as precious snowflakes whose each and every utterance has merit.
We are coddled and pampered like ladies in waiting at the royal
court. Most of us can accept this attention without our heads
swelling to the size of medicine balls, but a few can't.

Thankfully, the Mazda travel people had
the good judgment to send my shuttle on without its second passenger.

Once at LAX, I had my worst-ever
airport experience. LAX is a honking big place. Unlike the busier
Atlanta airport that at least oozes some degree of warmth despite all
the hustle and bustle, LAX always feels cold and uncaring, staffed
with people who would all rather be somewhere else.

I arrived at Terminal 5, roughly 90
minutes before my flight's departure. Here Delta has installed a
completely separate area for it's Sky Priority customers, far removed
from the surging rabble devoid of any frequent-flier status. I
printed my boarding passes for the day before leaving the Four
Seasons where Mazda hosted us. I brought a bag too large to carry on
the plane because I knew I would be transporting home a couple of
bubble-wrapped 22-ounce bottles of Belching Beaver Peanut Butter Milk
Stout. All I needed to do at Delta's desk was check that bag.

I approached the area, although
unmarked, that appeared to be be the check-bag-only section of the
desk. There a big guy stood speaking to a female Delta agent. He
pretty much ignored me until I cleared my throat and said all I
needed to do was check a bag as I held up my boarding pass. Barely
acknowledging me, he pointed down the counter where two other Delta
agents were helping people. I walked down there and stood in the
short line. When my turn came to step up and be helped, the agent
looked at my boarding pass and redirected me back to the area from
which I had just come. Turns out the big guy was the baggage handler
whose job it was to place bags on the conveyor belt. The agent he was
speaking with – who didn't so much as look at me on my first pass –
was the agent assigned to check bags for people with boarding
passes. What I didn't know, because one must walk around to the back
of the counter to see the sign, was that the appropriate spot to
check a bag with a preprinted boarding pass is on the far side of the
counter. She finally sprang into action when I divined precisely the
exact spot and lined up there.

What are all these people doing?

With my bag finally checked, I
approached the TSA “security” station. I have “Known Traveler”
status which means I made a special 320-mile round trip to the TSA
offices in Atlanta where I was interviewed, vetted, finger printed
and photographed. As a benefit of being a Known Traveler, I always
get PreCheck. This means I basically sail through security. I don't
need to remove anything from my carry-ons; from my person I don't
need to remove my belt or shoes or anything from my pockets, and my
laptop stays safely in my bag. The only precaution I must take is to
put my cell phone in my bag as it goes through the X-ray.

With PreCheck, you walk through the
metal detector rather than stand in the
hold-your-hands-over-your-head-and-cough X-ray contraption. My pass
through the metal detector was met with a loud beep. I was instructed
to step out and go through again, which I did. BEEP! The TSA agent
asked if I had anything in my pockets. I answered that of course I
did; it's the PreCheck line! He took all my pocket flotsam except for
the cash and had me walk through again. BEEP! He handed back my
pocket contents, had me step back again and then go around to the
X-ray machine. There I was told to keep my pocket contents in my
hands as I held them over my head. With the X-ray, he spotted the
knee brace I wear anytime I'm dressed in long pants. This initiated a
call for “back up.”

Despite there always being several
agents milling around these security stations apparently with nothing
to do, getting an agent over to give me some individual attention
took about two minutes. In the meantime, I stood with the X-ray
operator glaring at me. Finally an agent about my age shuffled over
wearing surgical gloves and carrying a metal-detector wand. He asked
which bags on the X-ray conveyor were mine and grabbed my backpack.
Putting it off to the side, he had me sit down. He asked me to roll
up my pants leg so he could see my knee brace. I was wearing jeans
and that wasn't in the cards. He frowned and then told me he needed
to feel the brace before running his hands down my knee. This is not
a big, fancy brace. I paid $14 for it at CVS. It's more of a knee
wrap than a brace. Not satisfied, he then wanded it. Although it
doesn't feel as though it contains any metal, it must because it set
off the wand.

You may feel a little pinch.

Clearly stumped the agent stepped back
to think for a minute. I had been in security now for roughly 15
minutes. I have passed through security unmolested at least 20 times
since I began wearing the brace in December. But suddenly, I'm public
enemy No. 1. Although I'm in no danger of missing my flight, I'm
beginning to become a little ticked. I say, “I can't imagine you
don't get at least 100 people a day through here wearing knee braces.
I don't understand why it seems such a mystery to you, you officious
dumbass.”

Well, I didn't actually say, “you
officious dumbass.” It was implied.

His clipped response, “You shouldn't
imagine things.”

What?

He finally calls over his supervisor
and explains the threat I pose. “It's one of those damn knee-brace
felons,” I imagine him whispering. There I go imagining again. I
see his supervisor shake his head, no. The agent returns, hands me my
backpack and sends me on my way. Apparently I dodged a trip to the
TSA offices for a strip search.

Once through security, signs directed
me through a construction zone in the bowels of the airport to reach
my gate. At the appropriate time, we boarded. Pushing back from the
gate, the plane taxied a few feet down the taxiway where it paused as
the pilot fired up the second engine. Seconds later the pilot
announces the right engine heat indicator isn't functioning and we
must return to the gate. Because the pilot didn't fire up the right
engine until we had pulled out into the taxiway, a tug had to be
found and brought over to pull the plane gateside. This took nearly
30 minutes. More than another hour was required for maintenance to
tighten a connection in the engine, which fixed the problem.

With only 80 minutes baked into my
schedule to connect in Atlanta, I knew I wasn't going to make my
scheduled flight to Greenville. From my seat, I called Delta's
service center. I informed the agent I wasn't going to make my
connecting flight and needed to know what my other flight options
might be. There was another flight to Greenville leaving about three
hours later with open seats, I asked to be backed up to that. No
problem, I was told.

Arriving in Atlanta, I called the
service center again to confirm my seat on the 4:49 flight. The agent
informed me that I was only on standby for that flight and it was
showing full. But I was confirmed on the 7:05 flight. Seething, I
walked to the nearest Delta service desk where an agent confirmed
what I was told on the phone. I go to the gate for the 4:49 flight
where I see on the board that there are actually seven open seats and
I'm first on the standby list. I am stumped why I'm not confirmed
with seven open seats, but the gate agent tells me not to fret, I'll
get a seat. As I sit waiting for my seat to clear, three non-Delta
flight crew members approach the podium and are promptly issued three
of the seven open seats. They are apparently deadheading back home.

Wait a minute, Delta issues open seats
to deadheaders before it does to paying customers it's already
inconvenienced at least once during the day? The two people on the
standby list below me were also on my delayed flight from LAX. The
three of us made the flight by the skin of our teeth.

There is something terribly wrong with
this system. Not to mention, it's lousy customer service. It was a
very long travel day.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

I'm not the kind of guy who can find much to whine about when relaxing in the Florida Keys. Sure the relentless sun and heat usually turns my beer into the temperature of bath water before I manage to finish it, but it's just motivation to drink more quickly.

During my first two days in Islamorada, I've avoided getting sunburned; so, nothing to complain about there.

$200 later, a new prop.

The boat propeller took an unexpected dump on Day 1. I've decided that I am a jinx when it comes to Amy and Scott's boat. On two separate jaunts to South Florida earlier in the year we attempted to take the boat out. It's trailered by the side of their house most of the time. On one aborted attempt we managed to get the boat in the water before discovering it wouldn't run. The other time we didn't even get it that far.
The boat had been performing brilliantly before my arrival, carrying several people out to a popular snorkeling spot. Before the prop went south, the boat had been dragging different kids around on a big tube. We headed to a sandbar for lunch – a trip cut short because we couldn't get the anchor to grab. As we motored away, the prop began slipping. We headed – at little more than idle speed – to the closest marina with a mechanic, who diagnosed the propeller as the culprit.

I tell you all of this to emphasize the negative effect I appear to have on the reliable performance of this boat. If it could roll over and play dead when it sees me, it probably would. But I can't even moan about this because the mechanic showed up yesterday afternoon, as promised, and replaced the faulty prop. In fact, the repair was so timely that we were able to head out to a couple of joints for happy hour.
How can I complain about that?

The "OV" for happy hour.

I don't always sleep well on the road, but not an issue on this trip. The beach-side condo my friends rented for a month has three bedrooms. The one I'm hogging for nearly a week has a queen-size bed that's as comfortable as any I've slept in. I've been sleeping like the dead. Nothing to bitch about there.

We've had decent sunsets both evenings I've been here. Neither was spectacular, but they were fairly colorful. No fodder for whining in the sunset department.

My good camera did give up the ghost, but I'm taking it's stubbornness to perform as an opportunity to buy a new camera. Most of the photos you see here were shot with my iPhone.

I don't have the energy to search high and low for something to moan about. I am on vacation after all. I may stumble across something in the next few days I'm here worthy of my animosity, but my optimism on this is waning. In the meantime, I'll just concentrate on trying to drink my beer before it gets warm. I'll have my hands full with that.

My 4-1-1

I began covering the automotive industry in 1986, when I parlayed my position as a retail sales rep into helping conceptualize and establish a stand-alone automotive section for the Boca Raton News a Knight-Ridder newspaper in South Florida. In 1995 I moved to the Palm Beach Post to help develop its bi-weekly automotive pages. Leaving there in 2000, I freelanced car reviews to a variety of publications before assuming a senior editor position at AMI Autoworld magazine in 2001. While at AMI I helped launch NOPI Street Performance Compact magazine and was appointed its managing editor. I have been freelancing since leaving AMI in 2004. My regular outlets have included Hispanic Magazine, the Miami Herald, the Washington Times, the Journal-Register Newspapers, AAA Go magazine, MyCarData.com, Automotive Metrics, AutoTrader, Bankrate.com and Interest.com.

In addition to freelancing automotive reviews, from 1991 until 2001 I was supervising producer of the syndicated television series Discover America.